


Meant To Be

by fallingforcas



Series: Husband's n' shit [11]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Cutesy, Drunkenness, Fluff, Husbands, Idiots in Love, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-22 22:29:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23334745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingforcas/pseuds/fallingforcas
Summary: A couple of quarantine drabbles1. Ian and Mickey get drunk together - 25 "We're meant for eachother."
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Husband's n' shit [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643434
Comments: 4
Kudos: 98





	Meant To Be

**Author's Note:**

> As I'm in quarantine I couldn't resist doing a quarantine series of fics! Mostly based off my own experiences so far from isolation. I had to do fluff as I'm pretty emotional rn after the UK clapped and cheered on our NHS at the same time...so no angst (as of yet) atm. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and stay safe !! 
> 
> #25 "We're meant for eachother."

Mickey peers out the window, releasing a disgruntled groan towards the glass barrier between his over-heating body and the outside world. An announcement had been relayed, all over the radios, television sets, that they were all on mandatory lockdown due to an escalating global pandemic. At first, Mickey had brushed it off as one of those flu’s that came around and suddenly disappeared due to the advantages of vaccines, but from voluntary self-isolation to _compulsory_ isolation, Mickey could only understand that this shit was serious. Ian had freaked out, rushing around stores for groceries, making sure all the Gallagher’s had a safe place to stay. Which, somehow to their unusual luck ended with them both, locked down, alone in the Gallagher house. Lip, Tami and little Fred were all cooped up in the rubble of a house Lip had bought a lease on, Liam and Carl were staying with them for the time being, whilst Debbie, Franny and Sandy had vacated to an apartment they had recently began renting. Despite Mickey’s desperate urge to fling himself into the beaming sunshine outside their hot-as-fuck quarantine zone, he couldn’t resist the humble feeling reaching his chest at the thought of _actually_ having Ian all to himself, without the screaming and ongoing bickering of the other Gallagher’s.

That didn’t mean he didn’t need a break, now and again, from his overly energetic husband, who would _not_ stop chewing Mickey’s ear off with mindless chatter. Closing the curtain, annoyed at the fact that he was _literally_ barricaded in a sauna of a house, Mickey turns to Ian with a scowl, “Lockdown, huh? Being stuck in this place with your ass 24 hours a day is going to drive me up the _fuckin’_ wall, man.”

Ian steps over, frowning in offence to Mickey’s admissions, and swats Mickey’s crossed arms, “Hey!” He then proceeds to near Mickey in a way of seduction, his voice all raspy with his trademark charisma that turned Mickey into a squirming mess. “You _love_ spending time with me. Secretly, you’re glad you get to see this,” he motions towards his gleaming bare chest, “ _banging_ body 24 hours a day. Admit it.”

Ian wasn’t wrong. Mickey couldn’t be happier that he had unlimited time with Ian’s hard-rock abs and giant cock, but he wouldn’t give Ian the satisfaction of telling him. Mickey had a reputation to uphold, after all. Well, a reputation already tainted by the whole marriage thing and professing his love openly in-front of _all_ their families and friends. But he had his reputation to uphold. A sentence he kept repeating to himself, trying to make himself believe it.

Playfully shoving at Ian’s advances, Mickey tries his best to hide his grin emerging, “Fuck off. I aint admitting to shit.”

Oh, come on, Mick.” Ian remains determined in his efforts to charm Mickey, and uncrosses Mickey’s arms that stayed still against his chest. In a whisper, lower than before, he teases, “If one good thing can come from this lockdown, it’s the endless amounts of isolation sex we’re going to be having.”

Mickey’s tense frame melts at the words. Ian notices, his smugness brimming through his mischievous smirk. Mickey tilts his head up towards Ian’s, hands stroking up his husbands arm. Bringing his own charm to the table, because two could play at that game, he licks at his lips, “Endless, huh? That a promise, Gallagher?”

“Yep.” Ian responds quickly, punctuating his answer with a pop of his lips. He bridges the gap between them, their chests brushing together, faces barely inches apart. Mickey’s light breath flutters against his chin, and his eyes dart back and forth from Mickey’s plump, wet lips and his beaming blue balls of light. He places a tender kiss at Mickey’s twitching lips before saying, “Endless.” Between each word, Mickey humming at each peck, Ian pesters Mickey with sweet, soft kisses. “Hot. Steamy. Fuckin’ _endless.”_

Mickey pulls his head back, a little flustered by Ian’s lips pressed against his own, and enjoys the sensation of Ian’s fingers playing at the waistband of his sweats, “ _hmm…_ ” He lets his own hands wander towards Ian’s hips, the twitch in his pants proving his sudden arousal. “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

There’s a glint in Ian’s eyes, an expression of hunger, that Mickey feels his whole-body crumble at. A smirk tugs at the corners of Ian’s smug lips as he speaks, “Knew that would stop you moaning.”

Mickey squeezes his fingers into the bare skin of Ian’s hips, tugging him closer with neediness, “You’ll hear more than moaning if you get on me, Firecrotch.”

If anything was good about the whole quarantine situation, and the availability to fuck in literally _every_ room or empty surface in the Gallagher house, was that Mickey could be as loud as fuckin’ wanted. No distractions, no pale and freckled hand pressed against his mouth to keep him quiet, and certainly no Gallagher’s bursting through the bedroom door every five minutes.

As Mickey’s throbbing erection bulges in his tight sweats, Ian’s eyes widen, as if he had suddenly had a _total_ light-bulb moment. “I have a better idea.” Ian expresses, lifting one finger from Mickey’s waist and up into the hot air that surrounded their intimate position.

Mickey sighs, hands gripping to Ian more tightly with growing hunger, a desperate need to roll their hips against eachother. “Don’t think any idea is better than you’re dick in my ass.”

Ian places a kiss to Mickey’s forehead before abruptly breaking their aroused embrace. He leaves Mickey, all mouth a gap and legs shaking with horniness, and rushes towards the kitchen. In a yell, towards a still and unimpressed Mickey, Ian motions to Mickey from the other room, “If we’re gonna go into lockdown, we might as-well go in fuckin’ drunk!”

In a distressed need to have Ian _literally_ pounce on him, Mickey stamps his feet like a child, grunting and groaning at Ian’s misdirection of the situation. He shouts, with intended malice that becomes nothing but a quivering holler, and gestures his hands around in irritation as Ian re-enters the living space. “You’re giving me _serious_ blue balls because you wanna act like a goddamn teenager, drinking shit liquor and talk about our fuckin’ feelings?”

Ian must relish in Mickey’s frustration. He acts as if he wasn’t, moments prior, seducing Mickey to the max. With an nonchalant attitude, shaking two full bottles of cheap whisky in the air, he’s beaming with a childish smile that only resembled the Gallagher Mickey remembered back when they met up at the dugouts. Mickey’s slowly losing his eager erection, to his utter dismay, and Ian wiggles his brows. “It’ll be fun.”

Mickey chucks himself onto the sofa, huffing out a breath as he felt around for the remote. “Fun my ass. You can’t drink for shit. Two hours in n’ you’ll be conked the fuck out.” He rubs a hand down his face, stopping himself from releasing a yawn. “Too tired to carry your drunken ass to bed.”

Ian rounds the sofa, still intent on getting Mickey to do what he wanted. Like _always._ He offers one bottle towards Mickey’s moody attitude, “Just drink the damn whisky, Mick.” Mickey shakes his head; Ian pushes the bottle closer to Mickey’s reluctance, “Let’s enjoy ourselves before we kill eachother, yeah?”

“Fuckin’ fine.” Mickey snatches the bottle, flipping the lid off in one swift motion. The whisky was tempting, and after Ian’s rejection he needed something to block out Ian’s annoying fuckin’ voice. “Don’t cry like a bitch when I turn out to be right about all of this.”

Ian’s happy with himself as he hops onto the couch, his body slamming into Mickey’s side. He nudges at Mickey’s knee with his own, opening the whisky he clung to in his palms. Mickey’s still sulking, eyes avoiding Ian’s gaze, and Ian knows _exactly_ what to do. Leaning over to Mickey’s ear, he whispers, “We can always have drunk sex too.”

Mickey’s head whips around with speed, a singular eyebrow up perking up at his hairline. Ian’s grin widens. Mickey doesn’t need to answer; he doesn’t need to smack away Ian’s bubbling laughter brewing next to him. Instead, he grabs his bottle, downing the stinging liquid eagerly. If drinking knock-off whisky, that tasted like ass and stung like a bitch, meant Ian’s dick would be up his ass by the end of the night, Mickey was sure as _hell_ going to comply.

***

Two hours whizz by, at a rapid speed that mirrors the quickness in which Mickey’s clears his whisky bottle, the same velocity that Ian finds himself swaying, grumbling cheers, and speaking at top volume. During the first hour, Mickey had been taking shots, downing his whisky, in hope that Ian would make a sexual advance. As usual, Ian was utterly entertained in driving Mickey crazy, and began drinking his own liquor. Somehow, the weather had decided that it would be glorious while they were trapped within the four walls of the Gallagher house, which caused both men to strip down to their boxers, seated side by side on the old, ratty couch that remained central in the room. Mickey stuck against the fabric, sweat beading his forehead, and a new bottle of whisky in his lap. Ian had insisted on stashing large amounts of alcohol during the lockdown, but at this rate that stash was falling short. Ian, however, was grinning to himself drunkenly, eyes sloppily blinking towards Mickey, his mouth twitching as he attempted to form a coherent sentence.

Frowning towards the television, Ian slurs, “Why are we watching the—” his burp cuts his sentence, “ _news?”_

Mickey knew he handled his drink _way_ better than Ian. Considering he had been under the influence of alcohol from the age of eleven, maybe earlier, Mickey had formed a tolerance for such substances. However, that didn’t mean he couldn’t get drunk. A month before, Mickey and Ian had a date in the Alibi – totally a spot for romance, of course – and Mickey had drank that much his legs gave in and Ian and Kev struggled to get him home. This night, Mickey wanted to remain somewhat sober, or slightly tipsy, because most of the time, well always, Ian needed looking after.

Feeling the buzz, and the flush against his cheeks, Mickey waves a hand towards the report bellowing from the screen, “Getting some insight, y’know? See what’s going on in the world.”

Ian scoffs, well, that’s what Mickey thinks he’s trying to do, and knocks his head against the back of the couch, whimpering childishly, “We already know what’s going on, Mick. This is _totally_ killing my drunk vibe—”

Ian had a habit of including _totally_ in every drunk sentence. It was a recurring habit that Mickey repressed his irritation for. Despite Ian’s need to become a _total_ valley girl, Mickey couldn’t help but love drunk Ian Gallagher. He was cute, like an infant who needs reassuring and monitoring all the goddamn time, and he’d twitch his nose constantly while humming a random tune he had assembled in his head. Mickey _loved_ Ian like this; all free, thoughts on anything but their existing reality, and so damn _needy._ It isn’t something Mickey would admit, though, as Ian’s head was already _huge_ enough.

“Vibe?” Mickey spits out the alcohol resting in his mouth, scrunching his brows together, “you a fuckin’ hippie now?”

“Shut up.” Ian defends himself, swatting aimlessly at Mickey’s arm. He then proceeds to kneel by Mickey’s legs, his hands reaching up to Mickey’s. He flutters his eyelashes and Mickey knows he’s done for. “Put some music on. _Pleaseeeee…”_ Ian then brings Mickey’s freehand to his lips, kissing each knuckle sloppily, wetting the skin. “Watching the _goddamn_ news is _totally_ not the party I had planned for tonight.”

Mickey wants to pull his hand away, he does – promise, but he’s enjoying Ian’s pleading nature _far_ too much. Ian needed to beg after his whole _let’s get Mickey all hot and fuckin’ bothered and give him blue balls_ display. He lets Ian kiss at his skin, bringing his bottle to his lips. After a sharp gulp of the brownish liquid, he exclaims, “Party? What the fuck are we celebrating?”

Ian bears a face-splitting grin, giggling as he spoke such soft words, “Not killing eachother in the first day of our quarantine?”

Clicking his tongue as he attempts to hide his incoming smile, Mickey becomes amused by Ian’s pronunciation of his sentence. Ian’s all soft, cheeks rosy, and eyes drooping in intoxication, and he looks so _beautiful_ under the dim lights that surrounded them. Mickey squeezes Ian’s wrist, downing yet another shot of the vile whisky, “Good point.”

***

Yet another hour passes by, after Ian pleading Mickey to put on some music, and Mickey shoving off Ian’s clinginess with a playful smile. Now, as expected, Ian was dancing around the living area, all random movements and flailing arms. “Oh, I love this song!” He calls out, taking another shot of, now vodka that they had hid beneath the kitchen sink, alcohol which dribbled at the bottom of his chin.

It’s the eighth time _Blinding Lights_ had blared out into the Gallagher house. Ian had insisted on listening to it around five times every hour, and Mickey was going out of his goddamn mind. While the reminiscent tune echoed around them, Mickey watched through his blurring eyes as Ian’s grin grew wider, if that was possible, and threw his hand out towards Mickey. “Come on, Mick. Let’s dance! Dance with me!”

Mickey shakes his head, snatching the wobbling bottle from Ian’s fingers and takes a sip, “Jesus Christ. Told you not to take those fuckin’ shots, man.”

Ian giggles loudly, causing ringing to echo in Mickey’s ears, and shakes his head, “You’re sooooooo boring.” He nears Mickey, stumbling at his step, placing his hand onto his shoulder, “get _up.”_

There was _no_ way Mickey was participating in such ridiculous dancing. Even if there was no one around to witness it. He shakes his head, feeling the alcohol churning around, and takes another sip, “Nope.”

Almost knocking the vodka from Mickey’s grip, Ian grabs Mickey’s hand using all his strength to try and lift him up from his spot on the couch. “Come _on,_ Mick.”

Mickey pins himself to the chair, feeling himself laughing at Ian’s pathetic attempt at lifting him. On a usual day, when Ian was sober, he’d beable to drag Mickey up in a second, but Ian’s strength had diminished like Mickey’s slowly dying brain cells from listening to the same damn song on repeat for the past hour. He pushes Ian’s hands away, lifting his bottle above his head to stop it from spilling, “Get the fuck off me, Gallagher. Dance to your gay shit on your own. I’m happy here.”

Ian takes the opportunity to pounce on Mickey, and not in the way Mickey initially hoped for, his sweaty chest slapping harshly against Mickey’s. Mickey lifts the bottle in the air, somehow balancing it onto the coffee table with skill, and they end up wrestling amid laughter and sweet utterances. Mickey shoves at Ian’s giggling chest, causing them to tumble onto the floor in a heap. Mickey pushes his hand into Ian’s face, laughing to himself as Ian’s bubbling chuckles were so damn contagious. “Fuckin’ dick—” he barely gets his words out as Ian flips them over, his face hovering over Mickey’s. As they pant against eachother, Ian presses a soft kiss against Mickey’s whisky tainted lips.

***

After vigorous wrestling, that exhausted the both of them, they both perch on the window ledge, cigarette in their hands as they exhaled the smoke out of the wedged window. Mickey closes his eyes in satisfaction, exhaling the smoke slowly. Ian leans towards the window, eyes fluttering at each drag. After a prolonged silence, that Mickey was praying would last a little longer considering Ian had not stopped talking, Ian pipes up with a question that Mickey barely processed as the alcohol took over his senses.

“You’re not going to get bored of me, are you? I mean, we don’t know how long this shit is going to last.”

Mickey pops his eyes open, eyebrows struggling to shoot up in their trademark fashion. Ian, especially when drunk, asked such _stupid_ questions. Mickey sucks at his smoke, answering between his exhales, “Don’t be stupid, Gallagher. I deal with your shit every day,” he nudges Ian’s arm as the redhead’s expression appears suddenly sunken, “for the last _ten_ fuckin’ years. This shit aint anything different.”

Ian nods slowly, his smoke falling limp at his fingers, “What if one of us gets pissed? Or we argue? We can’t just run to the Alibi to cool off.”

Ian did have a point. They argued _a lot,_ mostly over stupid things. But those bickering moments always ended in cuddling, make-up sex, or staring at eachother until the other one cracked. The sincerity on Ian’s wounded expression made Mickey want squirm internally. Even after _literally_ getting married like a pair of old-queens, Ian still didn’t see how much Mickey _wanted_ him. Mickey needed to shut that shit down. Immediately.

Mickey shakes his head, giving Ian a shy smile, “There’s many rooms here, Ian. Just fuck off into of those until we calm down.”

“Hm,” Ian mumbles, chucking his smoke out the open window, “You’re right.”

Scoffing, Mickey tilts his head in smugness, “I’m _always_ right.”

Ian finally breaks into a giggle, to Mickey’s relief, and pokes Mickey in the side, “I mean, except about me being a _total_ lightweight. I’m still standing—”

Mickey cuts him off with his lips. He drops his smoke out the window before gripping to back of Ian’s neck, drawing their bodies closer together. Sloppily darting his tongue into Ian’s mouth, moaning as Ian’s hands began to roam at the small of his back and down to his ass, Mickey hums into their sudden kiss. Ian roughly kisses back, one hand cupping the side of Mickey’s face. When they release, Ian’s flustered state is enough to make Mickey shyly hide within himself.

Ian’s thumb brushes at Mickey’s cheek, his smile slowly creeping up against his own. Mickey’s breath blows against his face, and he doesn’t intend to move away just yet. In a low voice, Ian confesses, “We’re meant to be. You and me.”

Bashfully, Mickey tries to mask his adoration for Ian’s unexpected exclamation. He ducks his head, reaching around his pockets to find his packet of cigarettes. With Ian’s palm still resting delicately at his cheek, Mickey lifts another smoke towards his lips nervously. He speaks around the filter, “Fuck you talking about cheesy bullshit for?” His eyes motion towards Ian’s drink, “that’s your last drink, man. I’m cutting you off.”

Ian defensively grabs his half-full bottle, “Like fuck you are.” He takes a sip, wincing at the sharp kick hitting the back of his throat. He drops his hand from Mickey’s reddening face, and grips at Mickey’s wrist. “Don’t you think we are though?”

“What?” Mickey deadpans, avoiding the conversation as his eyes drop to the floor.

Ian sighs, “Meant to be. Like –” he waves his freehand to the air, “ _soulmates.”_

Darting his head up towards Ian’s attention, Mickey frowns, “Soulmates?”

Ian was definitely drunk.

Ian bears a soft-hearted smile, believing each of his words, “Yeah. Like two people who are destined to be together.”

Mickey shakes Ian’s grip, moving towards the couch that had been previously abandoned. “You’ll believe anything you read.”

Feeling slightly rejected, Ian slaps a hand against his thigh. “Didn’t read it on some botched website, Mick.” Finding it hard to see, he fumbles to close the window before following Mickey’s slumped path onto the couch. “Many people believe in soulmates, _me_ included.”

As Ian chucks himself into the empty space next to Mickey, Mickey steals the bottle from his hands. “Then you’re as deluded as them.” He takes a sip, using the alcohol to blur Ian’s puppy-dog eyes next to him, “Destiny is bullshit. I _chose_ to be with you. Just like _you_ chose to be with me. Aint no high fuckin’ power making us do that.”

Ian slumps into the chair, pouting his lip out. Mickey chooses to ignore it. Seeing Ian like that made him was to do shit he _never_ had seen himself doing. Like cuddling, whispering sweet nothings, or showering him with little kisses. He’d save that for the bedroom. Ian shrugs, offering his case, “So, you don’t think there’s a reason why no matter _what,_ whatever shit gets chucked at us, over and fuckin’ over, we always end up together?”

Mickey nods in agreement, his hand instinctively squeezing Ian’s knee in reassurance, “There is. Just not fuckin’ destiny.”

Spiking Ian’s interest, Mickey feels his husband’s intrigued stare towards him. “So, what’s the reason then?” Ian asks, smiling beneath his sulked expression.

Mickey can’t stop the words spilling from his mouth, “because we fuckin’ love eachother. That’s why.”

Ian lights up with adoration, his teeth shining bright as he gave Mickey a tooth-eating grin. Giddily, he presses a kiss to Mickey’s cheek. He’s giggling, all light and airy that made Mickey’s insides twist, and he glances over Mickey’s features with awe. “Awww, look at you being _all_ cute and up in all your feelings.”

Mickey brings his middle up within the small gap between them, “fuck you, Gallagher.”

Ian chuckles, laying his head down into Mickey’s lap. “You’re a Gallagher too now, remember?”

Without really noticing, Mickey’s hand falls into Ian’s hair, his fingers intertwining with the red strands that splatted against Ian’s scalp. “Yeah, you won’t let me fuckin’ forget it.”

Ian’s eyes begin to flutter, his words tumbling from his mouth with sleepiness, “Love you.”

Mickey continues to rub at Ian’s scalp, adoring Ian’s peaceful features falling into sleep, and he smiles to himself, in disbelief at how he managed to bag such a _fine fuckin’ specimen_ of a man. He lets Ian lay there for a while, and once he knows Ian’s finally asleep, a little whistle blowing from his lips, he replies in a whisper, “Yeah, yeah. I love you too, you drunken mess.”


End file.
